


the boy who blocked his own shot

by pennyofthewild



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, genfic!, misdirection 2014, prologue fic, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Junpei finds himself mesmerized by the squeak of basketball shoes and the thud-thud of the basketball and the roar of the crowd every time a shot is made – ]</p>
<p>This is not a love story. (Hyuuga, and discovering basketball.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the boy who blocked his own shot

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely apologize for Izuki's lack of puns. I am not a witty writer.

The first basketball game Junpei sees is on a Saturday night a week into summer vacation in sixth grade. His father has always been a basketball fan, but tickets for JBL games are hard to get by, and he is usually busy with work most nights, anyway. Besides, Junpei isn’t really into sports; his afternoons are mostly spent enacting epic fantasy battles between the warriors in his collection of samurai figures. Most of these legendary encounters end the same way: with Masamune (and his magic sword) coming out on top.

(But these tickets his mother got from work.  She can’t attend the game herself; she’s got an out-of-town meeting till Monday evening.)

 Junpei had woken up early to see her off, although she’d said she’d be fine even if he slept in. His father had been in the salon all morning, leaving Junpei to get himself a bowl of cereal and milk for breakfast.

 He makes up for it now, taking Junpei out for burgers before the game. Junpei sits across from his father at the rickety plastic table, feet barely touching the restaurant’s linoleum floor, and tries not to get ketchup on his elbows.

“Excited?” his father asks over his sandwich, laugh lines pulled tight around the corners of his mouth and crinkling his eyes. He empties his carton of fries into Junpei’s plate.

“I don’t know how the game works,” Junpei says, honestly.

“Oh, the rules are easy,” Father says, and Junpei follows the successive explanation as best as he can – two teams, five players each, one ball, the goal the opposite basket – “ah, you’ll get it when you see it.” His father takes pity on Junpei when Junpei goes cross-eyed. Junpei’s more of a hands-on learner; listening to explanations has never been one of his strong points.

There are fifteen minutes to the game when they arrive. Junpei’s father keeps a cautionary arm around Junpei’s shoulders as they make their way through the crowd milling in the courtyard outside the stadium. Junpei coughs as he is hit by the onslaught of air-conditioned air inside the building, a stark contrast to the muggy humidity outdoors.

Junpei’s is an aisle seat. He is surprised they found seats at all; the bleachers are nearly full. The sound of the crowd is almost deafening, the hum of hundreds of excited voices pulsating in Junpei’s ears. The court – an elongated oval a strange shade of orange – is enormous, even from this high up in the stands. Junpei watches the players throwing practice shots at the basket and wonders how it must feel, to stand where they are standing.

None of the players miss their shots.

“That’s the three-point line,” Father says, interrupting Junpei’s reverie. He seems not to have noticed Junpei hasn’t really been listening. “Shots made from or behind that line are worth three points instead of two. And that’s the free throw line. When a player is awarded a foul, they’re allowed to make an unguarded shot – called a free throw – from that line. It’s only worth a point, though.”

“Dad,” Junpei says before he can go on, “have you ever played?”

His father smiles, a little wry, self-conscious. “I did, back in school.” The smile turns fond. “I loved the game,” it sounds like an admission, to Junpei’s ears, “but I’m afraid I was never very good.”

He pats Junpei on the knee.

The game starts five minutes later. Junpei finds himself mesmerized by the _squeak of basketball shoes_ and the _thud-thud of the basketball_ and the _roar of the crowd_ every time a shot is made –

Junpei asks for a basketball on the way home.

 

***

 

His school doesn’t have a basketball team. Junpei isn’t very disappointed: there is only a term to graduation, and he is pretty sure he’d never have made it on a team, anyway. He’s only just started playing, after all.

Instead: Junpei takes detours to the neighborhood street court afternoons on his way home from school, basketball tucked under an arm. He leaves his book-bag and uniform jacket on the bench and practices shooting for hours till his arms are sore and his knees are about to buckle and he is making every three out of five shots on a consistent basis.

Nights, he dreams of Masamune coaching a junior high basketball team all the way to nationals. Somehow, he does so while he’s still in his samurai armor.

 

***

 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time at the basketball court lately,” Riko says, leaning her elbows on Junpei’s desk and propping her chin in her hands. Her schoolbag drops forward, knocking into the side of the table. She’s got a manic gleam in her eye. Junpei leans back as far as he can without falling off his chair.

“How do you know?” Junpei asks her, trying and failing to keep the suspicion from his voice. “Have you been _spying_ on me?”

“Oh, please,” Riko rolls her eyes, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, “as if you do anything _worth spying_ on.”

Junpei doesn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“If all you’re going to do is make fun of me,” he says, voice stretched tight with all his (little boy’s) pride, “go away, Riko.”

“You know,” Riko says, a thoughtful note in her voice, “you won’t get very far with just shooting practice. Especially not the way you do it.”

“I said go away, Riko. Don’t you have class or something?”

Riko shrugs and tosses her hair. “Well, okay. I guess I won’t be able to help you, then. Good luck learning to play on your own.” She slides off her borrowed chair and flounces towards the door.

Junpei lasts all of thirty seconds before he’s out of his chair and rushing down the corridor.

“Riko, wait up,” he calls, already a little breathless. She stops at the end of the hallway and looks over her shoulder, properly self-satisfied. Junpei rolls his eyes, inwardly, but he’s long grown used to sacrificing his dignity where Riko is concerned.

“You said you could help,” Junpei says.

Riko’s eyes sparkle. Junpei, taking in the smile stretching her mouth across her face, comes to the realization that it isn’t a manic sparkle but an excited one. He’s almost afraid she’s going to split her face in two. She nods, an enthusiastic bob up-and-down of her head that makes the ends of her hair dance. Junpei thinks she’s trembling, too, vibrating in place like an over-extended wind-up toy.

“Come to my house after school,” Riko says, pulling at her bag’s strap so that it lies flat, her fingers smoothing out the creases in her skirt. “It’s easier if I show you.”

“Is it dangerous?” Junpei can’t help but ask, lost in the vivid recollection of being locked up in the school building all night in third grade because Riko wanted to map the janitor’s classroom clean-up route. It had been dark, and Riko insisted on jumping at him around corners.

Riko grins. “Only if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

Junpei groans. “I really, really hate you,” he says.

“No, you don’t,” Riko reaches out and tweaks his nose, jumping backwards out of reach before he can protest. She is laughing so hard her shoulders shake. “You actually really like me.”

She turns around, ignoring Junpei’s muttered, “you’re awfully self-assured,” and walks the rest of the way down the corridor. She is about to turn the corner when Junpei thinks to ask,

“Hey, Riko: can _you_ even _play_ basketball?”

Riko shoots him a look. She laughs harder.

 

***

 

Junpei practices all the way through finals week.

Riko joins him in the gym, sitting on the floor with her books spread around her, reading aloud and throwing Junpei revision questions at the end of every chapter.

Afterward, Junpei lies on his back, sweaty and exhausted. He stares up at the ceiling rafters, Riko’s voice (reciting the characteristics of arthropods) washing over him.

“Hey,” he says, during a lull in her reading. He looks over at her, turning his head just enough to bring her into his line of sight. She is sitting cross-legged a little over an arm’s length away, her reading glasses perched on her nose.

(Riko hates her reading glasses. Junpei thinks she looks cute wearing them.)

“Mmm?” Riko tilts her head.

“Why are you doing this?” He leaves the ‘for me’ unspoken; it is pretty obvious she is here for him – because otherwise, she’d be at home, in the comfort of her room, studying at her desk (and possibly retaining more information, that way).

Riko sighs, removes her glasses, and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Idiot,” she says, “if you don’t pass these exams you’re not gonna be able to graduate. What good is being able to play a game if you don’t have a team to play it with?”

She gives him a narrow-eyed glare, replaces her glasses, and turns back to the book.

“Now,” she says in her best ‘teacher’ voice, “what are the differences between insects and arachnids?”

Junpei pushes his damp fringe off his forehead.

“Thanks, Riko,” he says.

 

***

 

“Hey, you’re Hyuuga, right? Hyuuga Junpei? I’m Izuki Shun.”

Junpei looks up from his laces, tugging his left foot free. The speaker is a dark haired boy, several inches shorter than Junpei (but also several degrees _prettier_ , which Junpei would rather die than mention out loud).

It is the end of Junpei’s first week attending a team practice. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for him, Riko has signed on as team manager (and, by day two, ended up running pretty much the whole show. She and Junpei are agreed that the current coach is about as useless as a drowning fish).

According to one of the upperclassmen, the coach is new – a replacement for last year’s former-JBL player, who’d been in an accident a fortnight before the summer tournament prelims. Junpei had wanted to ask what happened, afterward, in the tournament, but Riko had prodded him with an elbow the moment he’d opened his mouth in one of her not-so-subtle warnings to _shut the hell up_ , _Junpei_.

Izuki is a first-year, just like Junpei – but he’s been playing longer and his ball-sense is much better than Junpei’s. He’s played the same position – point guard – in all of their practice games so far, and he’s one of those naturally charismatic people that seem to be surrounded wherever they go. He’s stood out since the beginning of the week.

Junpei feels a little strange at being approached.

“Yeah,” he says. He is pretty sure he sounds awkward, but Izuki doesn’t seem to notice, grinning widely.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, “that was an awesome three-pointer you made, in the third quarter. You’re pretty good at shooting.”

“Thanks.”

“We’re in the same class, by the way,” Izuki says, sitting down on the bench next to Junpei. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the corner of his t-shirt.

“Really?” Thinking back on the week, Junpei can’t remember seeing Izuki in class. Then again, Junpei has spent very little time inside the classroom outside of actual class time, running to the gym during every free moment. He’s beginning to think he’s a little obsessed.

Izuki nods. “Yeah, I sit right behind you.”

Junpei scratches the end of his nose. Okay, maybe he’s _a lot_ obsessed. Then again, he sleeps through most of his classes – except for Japanese History and Social Studies.

Izuki laughs. Junpei is on the verge of feeling upset, but it is a good-hearted, well-meaning laugh, not a mean one. He can’t help the heat that rises to his cheeks, though.

“A couple of us are going to Magi Burger,” Izuki says once he’s caught his breath. “They’ve got a special offer on Tuesday afternoons: all-you-can-eat for 700 yen.”

Junpei considers it. Riko has violin lessons on Tuesday afternoons, and he is too tired for any more basketball today. He may be on the fast track to becoming an addict, but he isn’t suicidal.

Izuki is a really good point guard. If Junpei’s right, he’s going to be on the regulars pretty fast. Maybe, if he likes Junpei, he’ll agree to playing one-on-one sometime, or give Junpei tips on how to improve his dribbling, which is currently straddling the line between ‘bad’ and ‘abysmal’.

Izuki gives him an encouraging smile.

“Okay,” Junpei says.

 

***

 

“Here, take the popcorn into the living room,” Izuki says, “the game’s going to start in five minutes. I’m going to the garage to get the drinks from the fridge – I’ll be back in a bit.”

Junpei sets the popcorn bowl on the tea-table. The plastic clinks dully against the table’s wooden surface. The television is already set to the right channel. It’s running advertisements, of some sort. Junpei forgoes the couch for the floor. He sits cross-legged.

“Hyuuga,” Izuki shouts from somewhere, “do you want ice cream?”

“I thought we were having popcorn,” Junpei yells back in the general direction of Izuki’s voice.

“Thought I’d ask,” Izuki says, coming into the room. He’s balancing several cans of soda; Junpei gets up to help him.

Junpei is still unfamiliar with the NBA. He’s a lot less ignorant than he was a month ago, but his family doesn’t have satellite television, and this game is going to be his first. He’s experienced a lot of firsts, lately, he thinks. Most have something to do with basketball.

“What teams are playing today?” It’s just Izuki, so Junpei doesn’t mind asking.

“Boston Celtics vs LA Lakers,” Izuki joins Junpei on the floor. He sticks the popcorn bowl in between them and pops the top of his soda, shooting Junpei a grin. “It’s actually the finals game.”

Junpei says, “um?”

Izuki sighs. “Okay, look. There’s two parts to the season: the regular games and the playoffs – ” he launches into an explanation of how the NBA system works, somehow managing to acquire a piece of paper and a pencil halfway through the impromptu lecture.

“They’re both the best of the best,” Izuki says with a flourish, putting the pencil down and picking up a handful of popcorn. “They’re kind of like … rivals, I guess? It’s going to be a _great_ game.”

On-screen, the camera pans to an aerial view of the court. The roar of the crowd, not dissimilar to the one at the JBL game, emanates from the speakers, joined by the commentator’s slightly nasal drawl a moment later.

“Hey,” Izuki says, “it’s starting.”

The teams come onto the court, accompanied by thunderous applause.

“The Celtics are in white,” Izuki supplies helpfully.

“Who’re you rooting for?”

“The Celtics have actually beaten the Lakers eight times out of ten,” Izuki says. “They haven’t won a championship in a while, though. I’m not with anyone, either way.”

“So you’re a ‘support the winners’ kind of guy?” Junpei raises an eyebrow.

Izuki shrugs. “Not really. I’m just hoping for a good game.”

Junpei remembers that, later, in the second half, when shooting guard Ray Allen – who’d been injured in the first quarter – makes his seventh consecutive three-pointer across a diagonal, from the corner of the court.

He makes it look so easy: that fluid wrist snap, the ball dropping through the net in a single, flawless movement, as if in slow-motion.

“He’s one of the NBA’s most accurate shooters,” Izuki says, after that record-making seventh shot, scoring his twenty-sixth point.

_Wow_ , Junpei thinks.

 

***

 

Basketball is very much a team sport. However, the skill of a team is very much the sum of its parts, and that total counts more towards the game’s outcome than an individual player’s stats. Junpei is reminded of this in the aftermath of the first game of the summer preliminaries. He spent most of the first half on the bench, subbing in five minutes into the second quarter after the third-year shooting guard twisted an ankle.

Junpei played harder than he’s ever played before, stacking up fifteen points by the end of the game, but it still wasn’t enough to win. With this loss – the first and last of the season – Junpei bids a definitive goodbye to the year’s championship games.

“With the current line-up?” Riko says on the way home, shooting Junpei a look from under her lashes. She sighs. “Does winning really mean that much to you?”

Junpei tilts his head back, looking up at the sky, orange-gold, shot through with red. “No,” he says, decidedly, “it’s enough that I get to play.”

 

***

 

Two years later, he wishes he could still say the words. _Winning doesn’t matter to me. I love the game._

 

***

 

A week before graduation, Izuki asks, “hey, Hyuuga – you coming over to watch the tournament?”

_No_ , Junpei wants to say, _I’d rather not. I hate basketball_.

Izuki gives him a bright-eyed smile. Junpei skips a beat.

“It’s a Celtics game,” Izuki adds. “Nee-chan and I stocked up on microwaveable popcorn yesterday.”

“Fine,” Junpei says, and doesn’t shrug off the arm Izuki throws around his shoulders.

 

***

 

“Are you going to play in high school?”

They are walking home after the graduation ceremony, side-by-side on the sidewalk, schoolbags slung over shoulders. Junpei tries not to drag his feet. He’d been hoping Izuki wouldn’t ask: it feels slightly shameful to say,

“No, I don’t intend to.”

Izuki’s eyebrows furrow. “Why? That’s such a waste.” Three years of being friends with Izuki have taught Junpei to notice the slight narrowing of his eyes, the tightness of his voice. Izuki’s anger is a little frightening - sharp, bright, and, if Junpei is honest, not unexpected.

Junpei clears his throat. “We never won, anyway.”

“Oh,” Izuki scoffs, “didn’t you always say winning didn’t matter so long as you got to play?”

“Why do you care, anyway?” Junpei’s hands curl into fists. “What does it matter to you?”

“You’re giving up,” Izuki says, accusingly. “You’re giving up, aren’t you?”

“Why the hell does it matter?” Junpei’s tongue curls around the obscenity. It shouldn’t make him feel better, but it does.

“Because it’s a f*cking waste! You’re a hell of a player, Hyuuga – why would you throw that away?” There are two blazing spots of color on Izuki’s cheeks, just under his cheekbones. His lips have thinned to a furious line, cutting across his face.

“Like I’ve got anything to show for it,” Junpei mutters. “You want to know what’s a f*cking waste, Izuki? Basketball is. It’s a waste of time and energy and it’s worth nothing in the end. We’ve been wasting our time. I’m not going to keep wasting mine.”

“I’m going to go home,” Izuki says, slowly, “before I do something stupid, like hit you. And then I’m going to talk to Riko.”

“What, you’re going to tattle tale?” Junpei says derisively.

Izuki’s mouth twists. “No.” He doesn’t elaborate. Junpei wishes Izuki would just punch him – at least then, he’d have an excuse to hit back. Instead of a fistfight, Junpei gets to watch Izuki turn on his heel and stride away, down the road. Junpei stands there, in the middle of the sidewalk, till Izuki turns the corner – and then he stuffs his hands into his pockets, bows his head, and walks the rest of the way home.

 

He plugs his phone in to charge later in the evening, after waking from an unplanned nap to find that its battery had died. There is a single missed call from Riko, and several from Izuki, along with a series of messages.

 

From: Izuki Shun, 5:30 p.m.

I’m sorry for yelling at you.

 

From: Izuki Shun, 5:35 p.m.

Hey, are you still upset? Why is your phone off?

 

From: Izuki Shun, 5:40 p.m.

Hyuuga, I talked to Aida-san. You’re not replying to her, either. Look, I’m sorry.

 

From: Izuki Shun, 6:00 p.m.

Junpei, are you okay?

 

From: Izuki Shun, 7:20 p.m.

I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow?

 

Junpei switches his phone off, turns over, smashing his face into his pillow and goes to sleep again.

 

***

 

He wakes up at ten o clock to another message.

 

From: Aida Riko, 7:15 a.m.

I waited at the court over an hour for you. Thanks for standing me up.

 

Junpei calls her back. He is forwarded to voice mail. Junpei hangs up without bothering to leave a message.

 

***

 

“I don’t think blond is a good look for you, Junpei,” his father says.

“It’s _my_ hair, Dad,” Junpei tells him.

His father sighs. “When you want it dyed back, let me know.”

 

“I think I’m going to keep it blond for a while.”

 

***

 

(He doesn’t last a month.)

 

 

 

(He loves the game too much.)

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

end.

 

 


End file.
